


The Adventure Of The Velveteen Porter (1886)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [44]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Attempted Murder, Birthday, M/M, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes, train crash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-22 23:49:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10707711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: Someone seems to be trying to take advantage of certain railway companies' dreadful safety records, to effect a train crash for their own ends. And John surprises Sherlock with a 'cheap' gift.





	The Adventure Of The Velveteen Porter (1886)

As I have said on many an occasion, my friend Sherlock accepted cases mostly on their points of interest. No amount of money, and certainly no high title or fame, would make him touch a case that he considered 'unappealing', unless (as with our recent Brackhampton case) it was as a favour to a friend like myself. So I was not surprised to return to Baker Street one day and find that our latest client was a smartly-clad Great Northern Railway porter, resplendent in his velveteen uniform. Even if the fellow's haverings were clearly taxing my friend's patience somewhat.

“Let us go back to the beginning”, Sherlock said, pressing his long fingers together. “Sir, I am not sure that what you have laid before me even constitutes a case, but clearly your expertise in the area of railway matters is something that I must accede to. What first made you concerned?

Our client was a Mr. Robert Gale-Dobbs; as I have said, a railway porter. He was one of those quiet, nondescript sort of people, dark-haired and small of stature, about forty-five years of age and wearing round spectacles. He had a faint Scots accent, I had thought on hearing him speak, and he had clearly polished his uniform's buttons in order to make a good impression. He took a deep breath.

“Until a year ago, sirs, I worked at Baldock Station”, he said. “It is on a small branch owned by the Company that connects the main line to the Hertfordshire town of Royston, some trains being allowed to travel on via the connecting Great Eastern Railway branch onto Cambridge. A quiet station, until the accident.”

“Please tell us about that accident”, Sherlock said. The man frowned.

“As I'm sure you gentlemen can appreciate”, our guest said, “railway trains is getting heavier and longer all the time, and this makes for a lot of wear on the poor old permanent way. Baldock is only a small station, but there is a crossover to allow trains to change tracks. When they decided to renew the line, they set the points so that trains did single-line working on the other line, with flagmen at either end whilst the rails were being taken up and replaced. And of course there was a speed limit on the line, which was all as well as things turned out.”

“I see”, Holmes said. “Pray continue.”

“Everything went fine until that damn Cambridge train”, the man said ruefully. “You see, all our regular trains are slow ones, stopping at every station to Royston. But the trains that go through to Cambridge, they're expresses – well, semi-fasts - and they don't stop. A train came down and, somehow, the points were set for the missing track.”

I winced in sympathy.

“Was anyone killed?” I asked. He shook his head.

“Thank the Lord the train stayed upright, and because it was a semi-fast it had those modern buffers on it”, he said. “Lots of injuries, but no fatalities. Station was a mess, of course, but that could be cleared up. Lives can't.”

Sherlock looked at him shrewdly.

“I am sure that you read the good doctor's books, sir”, he said coolly, “and you are further aware that. whatever my abilities might or might not be, they do not extend to preventing accidents.”

“This weren't no accident”, the man said shortly.

We both stared at him in surprise.

“I see”, Sherlock said heavily. “Well, the obvious question. How do you know that as a fact?”

The man looked, if possible, even more anxious.

“Few weeks before it happened”, he said, “when they started work on the track, Fred – he's stationmaster – told me that he was sorta worried about Rudd, the chief foreman. Said there was something odd about his eyes.”

“How did the man's physical appearance come into the matter?” Sherlock asked, showing rather more patience that I might have expected. The man was definitely inclined to babble.

“Not the way he looked, the way he didn't look”, our guest said.

“You mean that he did not look people straight in the eye when addressing them?” I guessed. I had some patients like that, and it always made me warier of them than I might otherwise have been, often with good justification. He looked at me gratefully.

“That's just it, sirs”, he said. “Mabel – that's my good lady wife – she always says that you can't trust a man who won't give you eye contact, and I thinks she's right on that.” 

“Did this foreman actually _do_ anything suspicious leading up to the accident?” Sherlock asked. The porter scratched his head.

“Rodders – Rodney, the flag guy, the one who was supposed to warn oncoming trains – he said no-one had told him there'd be a fast train through.” He shook his head. “I just don't see that, sir. Every man who does that job – and I've done it myself once or twice – gets a list of all trains due. And when I did it, I had to show it to my boss every day to prove I hadn't lost it.”

That had to be true, I thought. I remembered reading of the tragic case of Foreman Bence back in 1865, who had got caught out by the tidal, the train whose time varied because it had to wait for the ship from France to dock at Folkestone. Amongst the passengers had been the famous author Charles Dickens, and when he had died some five years later, many had ascribed both that and his recent limited output as evidence of mental rather than physical damage from that terrible day. And railways accidents were, it should be said, far more frequent in those days, safety measures being patchy and often ineffectual. 

“No-one was killed, and yet you have come all this way from your country station to see a consulting detective”, Sherlock mused. “Clearly there has been some further development in this tale that has made you anxious. What is it?”

The porter turned pale.

“Mabel and I live in a place called Stotfold, sirs, about a couple of miles from the station. O' course I didn't say anything to anyone official-like at the time, but I talked about it with Bert, who lives a few doors down from me. He's a porter too, see, though he works on the main line at Sandy, up towards Peterborough. Well, the other day he came to me and told me that Rudd and his gang were replacing the rails on his line too.”

Sherlock thought for a moment.

“Where are you working now?” he asked. 

“That's what's got me worried, sir”, the man fretted. “I helped out after the accident and got myself injured for my pains. The Company treated me right, and when I was mended they gave me a choice; my old job or porter working alongside Bert up at Sandy. It's better for me you see, because he has use of a horse and cart to get him there of a day, so he gives me a lift. And the pay is the same.”

“That is very neighbourly of him”, Sherlock said. “So Mr. Rudd and his men are now working in your new station's vicinity?”

The porter nodded.

“You see, sir”, he said, leaning forward, “the layout at Sandy is sorta odd. The London & North Western's line, Oxford to Cambridge, cuts across ours north of the town, then runs into a station that not only sits next to ours, we share a platform.”

That did surprise me. Railway companies sharing platforms was like nations sharing disputed territories. Or like a certain consulting detective sharing his bacon of a morning....

Sherlock was looking at me suspiciously. I gulped.

“There's a connecting loop north of where the lines split”, the porter said, mercifully unaware of my embarrassment, “a real sharp curve. I think we got lucky at Baldock because the line is dead straight; if it'd been a curve, then Lord alone knows what might have happened.”

Sherlock thought again, and it was some little time before he spoke.

“Mr. Gale-Dobbs”, he said gravely, “I must be direct with you. I wish you to empathize.”

“Shouting, sir?” our guest queried. I bit back a snigger.

“Empathize, not emphasize”, Sherlock pressed, although I could see that it had amused him slightly as well. “To put yourselves in the shoes of the criminals in this matter. If you were able to derail one and only one train, and send it to destruction, which one would you target?”

The man looked horrified at such an idea, but nodded obediently and thought hard.

“The Night Mail, sir”, he said at last. “It has to be.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because the reduced visibility would mean that the driver and fireman would not see the danger before it was too late”, Sherlock said. “And all those letters, cheques and postal orders.... yes, it would be the perfect target. Well done, Mr. Gale-Dobbs.”

Our visitor visibly preened.

“Where are the men working today?” Sherlock asked.

“This week they're doing the down line between my station and Arlesey, the next stop towards London”, he said. “We are having to do a lot of chopping and changing whilst they do it; the station gets dar more trains than my old one. I would guess that next week they would do the up line next to it, and the station the week after.”

“Then that is when they will strike”, Sherlock said. He stared for some little time at our guest, then smiled. “I would like for you to send a telegram to us next week either way, to advise on their progress, and again when they move to working in Sandy station. The doctor and I will come up as soon as that happens.”

Oh would 'we', I thought, a little annoyed at his presumption. He just looked at me.

Apparently 'we' would.

+~+~+

“You spent a lot of time just staring at that poor railwayman”, I observed later, as we sat by the fire after a most delicious dinner (I was not sure what it had been, but it had involved bacon so that had clearly made my friend happy). “Was there something odd about his story?”

Sherlock seemed to hesitate.

“There was nothing odd about his story, Watson.”

I had the distinct impression that there was more to what he had said that my feeble brain was capable of discerning. No change there, then.

+~+~+

“I learnt something new today.”

It was three days after our velveteen visitor, and Sherlock seemed unusually cheerful, given the time of morning and non-appearance as yet of any bacon. I stared at him suspiciously.

“What was that?” I said. I had had a particularly hard day out and about the day before, and had been feeling exhausted when I had finally made it back to Baker Street. Thank the Lord for Mrs. Harvelle, whom I had had the good sense to telegraph earlier, and who had arranged for a re-heatable meal that had been ready so fast, it had almost beat me to our rooms. The woman was a marvel!

“Two things”, he smiled. It was unnerving, his looking cheerful before nine of the clock sand bacon. “Firstly, Bacchus came round with some information I had requested, and helped me put certain arrangements in place for our porter friend.”

“Good”, I said. 

“And secondly”, he smiled, “Miss Joanna Harvelle is quite adept with her knife collection.”

I stared at him in confusion.

“How did you figure that out?” I asked, confused. He grinned even more widely.

“I did not”, he said. “Bacchus did.”

It took my sleep-doused brain a few minutes to put it all together, but soon I was smiling as broadly as my good friend.

+~+~+

It was a certain someone's thirty-second birthday that week, and I had been stuck as to what to buy my friend for some considerable time. I owed dear Mrs. Harvelle yet another favour, for our wonderful landlady drew my attention to an advertisement in the newspaper which, she suspected, might be just the thing for him. I did not choose to comment on her observational skills that led to her remarks, and not just because she was possessed of a rifle.

Well, not solely because of that fact!

He was both surprised and delighted when I gave him the small parcel to unwrap and, I would wager, more than a little underwhelmed to find a quarter bag of his favourite multi-flavoured barley-sugar there. He smiled in thanks.

“Wordsley's” he said. “My favourite brand.”

“I'm glad that you like it”, I said. “Because there is more.”

“Watson?”

“I bought you a whole year of barely sugar!” I smiled triumphantly. “I know how annoyed you where when that sweet shop down the road stopped doing the lemon-flavoured ones you like, so I arranged with them to order a barrel of the things, and they will be supplying a bag to the house every week.”

The look of gratitude I got was so overwhelming that I wanted to hug the man. Wisely, I refrained.

“Sometimes I think that I do not deserve you, Watson”, he said quietly.

“Only sometimes?” I asked in mock indignation. “Harrumph!”

He chuckled.

+~+~+

Further telegrams kept us apprised of developments up in Bedfordshire, and two weeks later Sherlock and I set out for King's Cross Station to take a train there. I was a little surprised that my friend did not bring or advise me to bring a night bag; I would have thought that we would have to spend several days in the area. I still brought my gun, though. 

We made good progress until we reached the small station at Arlesey, whereon Sherlock stood up.

“We alight here”, he said.

“Is not Sandy the next stop?” I asked, confused.

“It is”, he said, “but we will not be taking this train there.”

“Why not?” I asked. 

Irritatingly he just smiled knowingly and led the way out of the carriage. I followed, trying not to scowl.

Out on the platform, the stationmaster had had drawn up a luggage trolley and was balancing a little precariously (for he was a large man) on top of it. All the other passengers seemed to have alighted as well, and were all milling around and chatting in confusion.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” the stationmaster called, mercifully gaining the attention of the crowd at once. “My sincerest apologies for delaying your journey, but we have a major problem with the line beyond Sandy Station, the next stop down. The line has suffered some flooding damage, so the company will be putting on a replacement train which will use the other line through there, and then resume its journey beyond.”

“Why can't we just use this train?” one man called out, quite reasonably I thought.

“The second line has also sustained some damage”, the stationmaster said, “but it is usable at slow speed. However, this heavy locomotive would be dangerous on it, and we do not wish to expose our passengers to unnecessary danger. Fortuitously we have an experimental rake of coaches at Hitchin; a lighter engine is already collecting them and will be on the opposite platform in around a quarter of an hour.”

“Experimental?” one haughty-looking lady snapped. “What is wrong with them?”

“They are experimental first-class coaches with a new and superior type of suspension, madam”, the stationmaster said smoothly. “I am sorry for the delay, but you will all be on your way again – and with more comfortable seating – very soon.”

There was still a little grumbling, but the passengers headed for the footbridge. I sighed. Railways these days.

“We had better join them”, I said. To my surprise he shook his head.

“Watch”, he said quietly.

I followed his pointing finger to where our locomotive was beginning to move its heavy rake of coaches slowly up the line. I knew that Sandy was a few miles on, but it still seemed to be accelerating rather rapidly, in my opinion. Sherlock handed me a pair of binoculars, and I watched as the locomotive steamed off into the distance.

Just the other side of a road over-bridge, and seconds before they would have disappeared from my view, I was sure that I saw both the driver and fireman leap off the moving engine. What on earth....?

+~+~+

“I still do not get it”, I said plaintively, as we made our way back to London. “Nor do I understand why the conductor was so strange when he checked our tickets. Anyone would have thought that he was a government spy, the way he was all cloak and dagger with us.”

“Such a presumption would have been quite correct.”

Words. I was sure that, at some time in the not too recent past I had been capable of them, but for now I just floundered. He smiled and sat back.

“Do you remember the cases involving our Russian criminal friend?” he said.

“Mr. Khrushnic”, I said. “He wanted you to find his youngest son innocent of a crime, and you both did and did not.”

Sherlock smiled at the recollection.

“Since then”, he said, “as I told you, he has made it clear to the criminal world in London that any action against me would not be well received on his part. In short, it would result in a one-way dip in Old Father Thames. So for anyone wishing to push Mr. Sherlock Holmes into the hereafter, they would first have to make sure that it looked like an accident. He paused before adding, “such as, a railway accident.”

I opened and closed my mouth as I attempted to rejoin the world of reality. It was out there somewhere, I was sure. Fairly sure.

“My would-be attacker has many names”, he said, “but only two are of import. In the London crime world he is known as Mr. Rowland, and his special field is the bribery of top officials and government ministers. My time as Mr. Charles Augustus Milverton enabled Bacchus to flush out several of his 'plants', and set his business back some years. Eventually, of course, he found out.”

“He knows that doing anything directly against me would bring about the ire of Mr. Khrushnic, and a subsequent terminal swim”, Sherlock went on calmly. “So he is more subtle. He creates a case that, he hopes, will draw my attention. One of his confederates becomes Mr. Robert Gale-Dobbs, a railway porter who worked at Baldock Station and now works at Sandy. Coincidentally, there was a real accident at Baldock, the real Mr. Gale-Dobbs was off work as a result, and he does indeed now work at Sandy. But he has never been to Baker Street, and physically he is rather different from our alleged velveteen client. I visited the town one day, and checked.”

“So the porter was a fake!” I exclaimed. He nodded.

“There were clues”, he said. “I was immediately suspicious because of the lack of stoop.”

“Of what?” I asked, confused.

“Railway baggage hand-carts are notoriously badly designed”, he said. “Anyone who had spent a part of their living pushing one of those contraptions, heavily laden with people's luggage, would quickly develop some arching of the back. This man had none. Then there was his skin.”

“What about his skin?” I asked. “I noticed some soot on his nails, which one would have expected.”

He smiled.

“As I have said before, there is soot, and there is soot”, he said. “I do not know this man, but I would wager that in order to play his part, he spent some time milling around one of the busy railway stations for a few days before he called on us, possibly even as a porter. It was his bad luck that he chose the Great Western Railway's Paddington station for his preparation; he had some wear on his hands from carrying bags, but their locomotives use fine Welsh coal, which results in a much smaller soot particle. Fortunately our visitor was inherently untidy, and I was able to collect some of the soot he left behind and confirm my suspicions by having it tested.”

I still felt confused.

“But how could they be sure that you would be on that train?” I asked.

“That was where the conductor came in”, Sherlock smiled. “We knew that Mr. Rowland would be placing someone on the train to make sure that I was on it when it crashed, and that most likely that person would be in first class so they could be close to me. Brock – Mr. Kenton-Hurst, the conductor – found and chloroformed the man when he went to take his ticket, and locked the compartment after him. You saw the driver and fireman quit the train; when it crashed a few minutes later there would, by the workings of divine Providence, be only one person asleep on it.”

“A divine Providence called Sherlock”, I pointed out.

“Mr. Rowland's gang doubtless set some sort of trap on the connecting point north of Sandy, so as to derail the train there”, Sherlock said. “'Great detective dies in railway accident' would have been in the papers for a day or so, then they would have moved on.”

“But I would not have!” I said hotly. “You should have trusted me.”

He smiled at me, a little sadly.

“Watson, you are too good”, he said. “You wear your heart on your sleeve, and are so honest and true that you make a terrible liar. Of course I would trust you with my life if necessary.”

“But this time you trusted Bacchus”, I said, trying not sound sulky.

“Unless it is something in his own interest, I would never trust my brother”, Sherlock said firmly.

“Then how....”

“Because Bacchus knows that if anything happened to me, and Mother found out that he had been in any way involved, then the wrath of Mr. Khrushnic would be as nothing to her fury”, Sherlock said. “She is inventive enough to make sure that his subsequent life would be both short and decidedly interesting.”

I chuckled at that, as our train sped on its way back to the Great Wen.

+~+~+

Postscriptum: I was a little anxious that the vile Mr. Rowland might try again to end the life of my friend, but this was prevented by Sherlock simply passing on to Mr. Khrushnic the precise sequence of events. The news that another body had been dragged out of the Thames a few days after our return barely made the inside front page, as our last client exited our lives and his own.

+~+~+

Next time, an excursion to the Emerald Isle, and we clean up after a murder.


End file.
